Mise en Abyme
by BlueEyedFrog
Summary: Katie is writing her 2nd novel; she needs a compelling protagonist. After meeting Effy Stonem, Katie pens Elizabeth, a gritty new leading lady. Before long Katie develops an affection for the captivating Elizabeth. When lines are blurred between character and muse, Katie must decide whether to write the dark story she intended or to alter Effy's fate by binding it with her own.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi folks, **

**This idea came to me almost fully formed while I was writing a chapter of 'Some People Have Real Problems' and just screamed Keffy. Hardly one to turn down a challenge I jumped onto my borrowed keyboard and hammered this out.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Keffy any more than I owned Naomily.**

* * *

_She closed her eyes and laid her head back on the headrest of the stolen car. The drugs freshly coursing through her system-_

"Fucking... utter crap, formulaic bullshit!" I hit the backspace key fiercer than necessary and press my fingers to the bridge of my nose.

_Wanker publisher! _I reason; it helps a little. I sit back and blink again at the luminescent blank page. It just stares maddeningly back at me in the dim light of the study. I rub my hands roughly over the tops of my jeans before bringing them back to the keyboard and stretching my fingers out almost mechanically. I can't believe I fell for his capitalist schmoosey sales-pitch. The sly chauvinist prat even thought to bring in his totally fit assistant to help convince me. Boy was so bloody buff I found myself saying yes before I realised what I was agreeing to. Now before you say anything, yes I'm aware of the inherent hypocrisy of blaming him when I fell for the boy-bait he dangled at me. But, well, it's my story so shove it, yeah... And anyway it may have also had something to do with the flattering yarn Alan spun me about the success of my first novella and a promised five figure advance.

Now I find myself with an advance already spent on the rent for this crumby apartment, another repayment on dad's gym and a semester's worth of uni fees for James. And I have precisely _diddly squat _to show for myself as I hurtle towards my deadline. I'd always considered my first book to be a one off thing. I'd gotten my semi-autobiographical stuff off my chest, exorcised those demons, got the catharsis t-shirt; done. But after its unexpected runaway success, I now find myself having to conjure up a second effort. Only I'm plumb out of material, well that's not exactly true: I'm out of material I know intimately. I was so familiar with my first subject matter that it just seemed to pour out of me. Most of the draft pages even came back from the editor's office with reams of culled descriptions and notes in the margins telling me to "get to the point Katie"_._

This time I'm having to be more creative and it's proving absolutely infuriating. I've deleted paragraph after paragraph over the last few weeks and my notebooks are filled to the brim with half-baked ideas and useless doodles.

I pick up my first paperback from the shelf by my side. It's heavy but I know it back to front, inside and out. It's scarcely more than my own experience of the last five years of my life, with some artistic license, forcefully condensed and laid out across 186 pages. It's also the last two years of my life gone by in evenings spent by the desk-lamp, pouring over notes and a borrowed keyboard.

I lose myself for a moment staring at the doctored photo Emily took of Vauxhall Bridge under the title.

'_One Half of Two Wholes' _was quite obviously based on my own experience of finding myself. Because of the raw personal material involved, albeit embellished, I almost got cold feet when publishing it became a reality. My heroine was barely more than a black and white version of me: strong, human, beautifully flawed, familiar and ultimately relatable. But this creature I am trying to capture now is altogether different. She is ethereal, still beautifully flawed but I'm not sure she is quite human. I guess that's why every steaming pile of words I seem to conjure up lately just isn't relatable. I just don't fucking understand her.

I'm done considering a change of protagonist though. The closest I got to throwing it all in and penning another character altogether was just last week. But that was shot down in flames by Alan, who informed me the woman I had pitched him on a first draft was it. He's right though; she's it. I just have to wrap my head around her somehow. Yeah, easier said than done...

Maybe I need to ground her somewhere. Find us some common ground.

I put down the paperback in my hand and look around my home office. My eyes fall on the clock above the bookshelf full of other, more accomplished writers' work. It's 3.05am. Fuck me! No wonder my vision is blurring. I let out a defeated sigh but return my fingers to the keys and let them drum out another opening paragraph.

_As the car sped up, the blurry road markings and early morning streetlights became as many single white lines leading further on ahead. Leading away to an elusive vanishing point they might never reach. That was the goal right? To vanish. No wonder the French call them 'lignes de fuite.' Her rapidly dilating eyes followed these 'escape lines' in the dark._

"_Just follow the white lines" she said out loud, as much to Jack as to herself._

_And with that she pocketed the bag of white powder that had just minutes ago provided more white lines to follow across the dashboard of the stolen car._

I convince myself to push on without deleting. Anything is better than a blank screen. Before too long I have filled a page with letters and spaces. I'm no closer to identifying with her but I feel I might get there in time.

At least Jack is an easier one to write. I've met enough bad boys in my time to capture the gist of one. Although this one is more complex; my mind starts to drift. The memory of Cook from college creeps back into my tired thoughts. Class clown on our first day of assembly, by the time our first year was up he'd graduated to very bad boy indeed. Still, though he'd never let you get away with saying it, the lad had a genuine heart. It was his loyalty to Freddie that got him in the mess that landed him in jail for two years for dealing. I'm sure his thick skull and brash act-first-think-later methods didn't help one bit, but I don't think he would have gotten that severely penalized were it not for the sheer depth of his devotion to his mate.

Emily says he's done good now. Since he got out he's been building boats out at Avonmouth at his uncle's company yard. Keith was the only bloke keen to employ him with his rap sheet. Mind you, Keith Byatt was no stranger to hiring lads with a history of petty larceny or assault. He knew the real story behind his nephew's charges and I guess family means something important to both of them. So since then Cook's been behaving, more or less...

Still he's bound to have a few shady connections tucked away. He's sure to have some strings I can pull on for research. I'm not exactly completely lily-white myself. It wouldn't take much to immerse myself in his world, just dip my toe in, enough to come at this from a place of understanding.

I save the file and stand up in the dark room. My addled brain is not going to produce anything brilliant tonight. I check my phone for the time: 3.47 – bed time. Outside in the street the intermittent sound of glass bottles smashing tells me bin men have begun their round.

In my room I peel my jeans off and fold them over my dressing chair with my shirt. Slipping into my satin nightie I feel a little better as the silky fabric falls against my skin. When my head hits the pillow, it's only moments before the story arcs I've been running through all day merge seamlessly into dreams much more exciting than my daily life.

I wake to the sound of an irritating pop song. _Christ, I must remember to change that stupid ringtone! _I fumble around on my nightstand until my fingers find the phone and bring it to my ear.

"Hi Ems." My voice is hoarse.

My darling sister launches straight into a tirade at great speed.

"Katie. I waited until at least 10.30 before I called, like you said after last time but I need a favour."

My hand flies to my forehead on its own as I squint against the light from outside. "Slow down Emsy; you're giving me a headache."

"I'm sorry to ask and Naomi didn't want me to go to you but ... it's her boss, last minute redesign... anyway she has to stay at the office until late tonight to meet the deadline and I have that parent-teacher conference..." Perhaps she figures the best approach is not to give me time or room to say no.

As I catch up with her stream of consciousness, I begin to see where this is going. "You need me to pick up Sophia, right?"

"Uhm... yeah. Could you? She gets out of day care at 5 and I know you work to your own schedule."

"It's fine; happy to help you nine-to-fivers. Besides, my shitting writers' block might as well be of use to someone."

The relief in my sister's voice is palpable. "Thank you K. We owe you one."

'We'… there's that word. It's been four years now that my sister has been allowing herself to refer to her and Campbell as an 'us'. When I think about it, I reckon I let it stop bothering me around the same time Naomi let it stop terrifying her. Mind you, deciding to raise Naomi's 'little accident' together definitely cemented their togetherness. Nowadays their loved up happiness is commonplace and natural, but that wasn't always the case. Emily had to fight for it.

I never fought that hard for any of my boyfriends. Not for anyone in my life actually. Not unless you count Emily. I used to think I'd lost that fight, but now I know there were no losers. The moment Ems made me realise that was the very moment I finally stopped fighting. Since then I haven't had cause to fight again. So the infamous fiery Katie Fucking Fitch lost a bit of her fire. She settled with her newfound maturity and began to write instead.

That's when the pieces fall together. I quickly sit up in bed and take the lead of the conversation.

"Actually babes, there is something you can do for me."

"Mmm?" I can hear background chatter through the phone over Emily's distracted voice but I push on anyway.

"Cook is still Paddy's legal guardian, right? I mean, you should see him tonight at your... thingy." I wave a cursory hand in the air. "Think you could convince him to meet me for a drink sometime?"

"What?! Katie! I thought you said you'd never go there... and what about Brian? Are you guys..."

"Oh my god, ew! No Ems, _god_ no. I want to pick his brains, that's all. Jesus, that's disgusting!"

There's a pause on the line then I hear Emily's faint voice away from the receiver. After a few moments of horrifying mental images she's back.

"..._yup, ok Doug_... I've gotta go, K. I'm on homeroom duty, but I'll talk to Cook if I see him at parent-teacher tonight."

"Thanks, bye babes." I'm about to hang up when I hear her speak again.

"And Katie, don't be late to pick up Sophia... please. I'll swing by yours around 7.30 to drive her home."

"Don't worry Ems, I won't give your girlfriend more reason to criticise me. Wouldn't want to give Blondie the satisfaction."

Emily sighs "Nice, good to hear you've got your priorities in order... bye Katie."

* * *

**So there you have it. Comments are welcome; questions are encouraged (although if spoiler-related I'd prefer PMs).**

**To clarify, you will find the tense shift should assist you in telling Katie's prose within the story apart from the main narrative. Basically, I'm writing in present tense, Katie's story within the story is written in past tense. Just to make it extra-super-clear, I've also italicized Katie's writing. Still confused? I hope not.**

**I hope you all enjoyed the first installment and meet me back here for some more.**


	2. Chapter 2

**So I was at the video store and stumbled upon this Paul Dano (who I love) film called Ruby Sparks*(edit) and was shocked to find that the plot summary was very similar to the base premise of this fic.. *shock horror!* oh well.**

**I will say that I had this idea a year ago, before I'd ever heard of this film nor indeed before it was released. However, as this is fanfictiondotnet and we are already using characters that don't belong to us, I'm not overly fazed that my idea is no longer original. I'm satisfied in the knowledge that I thought of it on my own and that hopefully I will be taking the story in a different direction than the movie anyway. **

**That reminds me, I should go back to the vid store and actually hire it this time to see what my story's twin did with the concept. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own skins or Ruby Sparks but I do own what I do with this idea.**

* * *

"Sophia, don't climb on that railing."

The toddler shoots me a disappointed look but dismounts effortlessly off the banister of my apartment block.

"Panda says I can play anywhere I want." She argues, though thankfully her little feet fall in step with mine as we climb another flight. I'm grateful when she doesn't make a further break for death-defying freedom.

Bless her little cotton socks; this is classic though. Looks like Campbell's little rug-rat has an imaginary friend. Fucking precious!

We reach my landing and I turn to face her. I crouch down to bring my face to her level, which is no small feat in the expensive high heels I foolishly chose to wear this morning, and smile at her.

"Well you can tell Panda that he can take you to climb bamboo trees whenever you want, but not the rickety railing of a six storey apartment.

Sophia cocks her head with a puzzled look "Panda's not a '_he'_, Katie."

"Oh?"

"Panda's my day-care lady, remember? The one you said had in the car had funny hair." Two blue eyes bore into me with not a hint of mischief.

"Oh right. Ok… Well I guess she's got a funny name to go with that funny hair of hers." I conclude with a shrug.

Standing back up I rummage about in my bag for the key. The little girl by my side smooths over her tiny t-shirt with her hands while she rocks on her heels. The moment the door is open she's inside like a flash, kicking her shoes into a corner of the living room and vaulting face first into the couch.

"I'm hungry." She announces.

"And what would her royal highness like to eat?" I curtsey as I follow in behind her.

The miniature brunette version of Naomi swings a leg over the back of my couch and balances herself on her stomach across the cushioned material. "Something _healthy_…" she chants dejectedly into the padding.

I have to hand it to Campbell, she and my sister are doing this shit right. The child is vexingly bright and precocious. Must be in the genes. She's never short on energy and is always encouraged to physically explore her surroundings. She doesn't always behave, obviously, but she also knows when to listen and who's boss. Of course, Gina Campbell's hippy-dippy parenting has rubbed off a little as well. So her granddaughter has learnt to enjoy toys from Oxfam and spends most of her days in Naomi's raggedy childhood clothes, hand-me-down slogan tee-shirts and ugly kiddy overalls. Not to mention Emily's influence, which in turn comes from none other than our father: an obsessively healthy diet.

"Coming right up, munchkin."

I head for the kitchen and rustle up two bowls of yoghurt. It's the healthiest thing in my fridge, sitting proudly on the shelf between left-over Chinese takeout from yesterday and a bottle of mixed tonic which is probably mostly gin by now, if memory serves.

By the time we've both had our snack and I've brought my laptop out into the lounge, she's settled down a bit.

I sit on my favourite velour armchair and type up my notes from that morning's train ride while Sophia keeps busy behind the back of the couch. She's using the sofa as a kind of upholstered changing-room screen.

This has become our own little ritual about a year back. I stumbled upon this child-minding trick by accident when she tried on a pair of my heels near the front door and nearly snapped her tiny ankles in half trying to stomp around in them. I had swooped in and handed her a more sensible pair of cute ballet flats to play with. They were still more stylish than the fucking Birkenstocks her mother probably wears around the house, by a factor of a dyke-zillion. Seems the kid thought so too because, before long, she was asking me for another pair to try on. And then another. And another.

The following week she'd moved onto trying on some of my skirts as dresses. I should also point out that I actually own jewellery, unlike my little sister. Unless you count that tongue ring that Campbell is so fond of, which – ugh – I don't. So my niece has a better array of costume dress-up material here than at her mum's or her grandmother's places combined. That's how this little game of 'catwalk' became our thing.

Her little head bobs over the crest of the upholstery to the drumming sound of my fingers on the keyboard. I reach the end of my notes and decide to go over what I wrote since last night.

"_Just follow the white lines" she said out loud, as much to Jack as to herself._

_And with that she pocketed the bag of white powder that had just minutes ago provided more white lines to follow across the dashboard of the stolen car._

_It was 2am when the old estate car's tires groaned over the coarse rubble of the turnoff north of Doncaster. They had been driving for just over three hours that had felt more like five, despite Jack's wilful disregard for the speed limits. They'd taken the path less travelled, avoided the main city centres where police would surely be looking for them already. Every small country town they had drifted through had seemed like a shitty, coal stained, carbon copy of the one before._

_The gloomy hour did nothing to make the drab, abandoned site look any more hospitable. Jack pulled the handbrake and peeled himself out of the driver's seat under the looming shadow of one of the cooling towers._

"_Can't sleep in the car, they'll be on the lookout for the plates." He said with authority._

"_You expect me to kip outside in this weather?"_

_He tossed her a crocheted rug off the back seat and walked around to the boot. "We'll look for another ride in the morning." A few items landed by his feet before he howled "Jackpot!"_

_Jack walked to the passenger side brandishing a container of gasoline with an unconcerned smile. He did a quick sweep of the glove compartment; found a couple of overplayed and damaged cassette tapes, a map and a handful of useless papers which he threw into the back for fodder, some petty cash – not enough to see them through more than a day – and, ironically, a pair of leather gloves. They were too small for him so he lobbed them at the rake-thin girl and instructed her to stand well back._

_The flames and black smoke rose into the dark sky behind them, obscuring the stars, as they walked away from the burning carcass. _

_They reached the furthest concrete tower and crawled into the shelter of its cold walls. At least the wind was weaker in there. The temperature was milder. Though the air that did actually manage to siphon its way in through the cracks in the structure swirled around the space, escaping through the top with an eerie howl into the night sky._

"Katie"… "Katie!"

I look up from the screen. "Huh? Oh sorry sweetie, I was a million miles away."

The little creature leaning on the armrest doesn't look fazed. "How does this look?"

She poses with one arm on her hip and her left leg turned out like I taught her. One of my old satin nighties as a floor-length gown, a string of my pearls loops twice round her waist as a belt. An emerald green cardigan for a cape with sleeves tied around her neck in a large, awkward bow. And a beret sits on her small crown for good measure, falling half over her eyes.

"Simply ravishing Sophia. Eat your heart out, Jean Paul Gaultier." I smile.

The girl giggles and returns behind her screen for another costume change.

I look down at the typeface on the screen and feel a little better. I'm out of the ground and travelling at least. The page isn't blank anymore and the words are finally worth the pixels that make them up. Buoyed by this small sense of achievement I push on, looking for a natural stopping place.

_In the dim and dank recess they'd chosen for a bed, he ran his eyes over her gaunt frame. Her silver ball gown, now slightly smudged with damp brown mud at the ankles, still clung elegantly to her frame. What little light there was around seemed to shimmer unnaturally off the material and the string of fake pearls around her neck._

What? Like I said, I take from life. So be it. What's it to you anyway? I may be writing a gritty crime thriller this time, but I have to base _some_ of it in reality. Even if, for now, it's only my niece's fanciful fashion sense. Character definition will have to come later.

_She kicked off her broken heels and rubbed her gloved hands over the day-old track-marks in the crook of her left arm._

_He decided to leave her the blanket. After all, she already looked as if she might fade away in her sleep. And there was such a thing as gallantry, even when you're on the run._

"_In the morning we'll get you some less conspicuous threads too." Jack nudged her gently. _

_They both laid down against the steel skeleton of some dead but once-useful and expensive piece of machinery. Her gaze travelled around the space in vain. You couldn't make out anything further than a couple of meters around them. _

_He seemed to read her weary and worried mind._

"_Relax. Nobody's come round these parts in months." He whispered, seeking to reassure her._

_The tall concrete behemoths of Thorpe Marsh power station towered protectively over their two huddled bodies. _

"_Try to shut off that brain of yours if you're going to find any sleep tonight, eh?"_

_That was the last thing he said as he rolled onto his back. He kept the tire iron close at hand and she huddled tight into him, feeling a little safer for him being there. The warmth of his body and the promise of protection was the only comfort she would get that night._

I flip the laptop closed to find Sophia grinning at me again. It's a bolstering sight, the innocent smile of a child. I may look like I can easily switch on and off, jump seamlessly between dire fucking prose and the jagged contrast of my cosy life, but it's more demanding than it seems. And more draining too, I realise as a yawn tears itself from my throat.

Sophia spreads her arms and twirls in a strapless dress she's fashioned from one of my pencil skirts with a pink hair clip to pin it in place around her chest. The pleats of the skirt catch the air whirling round her legs and begin to dance around her knees.

"Lovely. You've made a playful creation out of my smart-casual wardrobe." I rest the computer on the side table and get up, applauding her as I move.

So yeah, I don't talk down to her. I believe kids are intelligent enough to be addressed as equals. Especially kids with this one's genes, know-it-all-Campbell and an equally bright father. Even if she _was_ conceived out of a stupid mistake. A mistake Naomi made one insecure night, when she was still petrified of the hold that Emily had on her. Even smart people can make fucking dumb decisions. Sometimes the dumbest if you ask me.

* * *

**And yeah, happy accidents that come from dumb mistakes can turn out to be beautiful things to be cherished. But then that's not just my opinion; Katie agrees with me.**

**So another down. I'm really enjoying writing this one because I am basically writing two stories in one so there's less chance of getting bored with the style of either. There is however more chance of my missing a tense slip for instance so these are demanding rather extensive proof-reads. That probably accounts for the slightly short chapters but I also feel the flow is right this way and I'm generally content with the closing of each chapter so far.**

**I hope you all agree. I also hope the shifts in and out of the story-within-a-story are clear and not too taxing on the ol' noggin. Let me know what you think.**

**Big platonic kisses to all.**


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